


Interlude

by maryagrawatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 05:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3558656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes home from hospital and unfortunate circumstances force John to deal with his feelings about Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

Sherlock comes home in early November, muscles wasted, his stamina almost non-existent. John had moved back to Baker Street after the shooting and so naturally falls into the role of carer as it keeps his mind off of Mary. Or as much as possible when Sherlock is in this state because of her. 

His first days back, Sherlock catches up on sleep, getting up with John's aid only to use the toilet. By the end of the week, with one of John's arms around him and the other clutching John's hand tightly, he can shuffle to the lounge and collapse in his chair for a few hours. 

By the middle of the second week, he can move around the flat on his own and is even able to get out of his chair or off the toilet by himself, although he still needs John's help with the bath. 

John spends those early nights kipped out on the sofa in case Sherlock needs him. He gets up a few times during the night and there is always something to do; the glass of water or tissue box are empty or Sherlock needs to pee or another blanket. One night, at three, Sherlock asks for a biscuit, which means he's famished. Now that he's off the heavy pain medication and his digestion is back to normal, his appetite is insatiable. John has taken to stocking sandwiches in the fridge for just such an occasion. Sherlock is so grateful for the unexpected ham sandwich that he actually thanks John twice at the moment and once more the next morning. 

But once Sherlock is able to get out of bed on his own and he can manage the toilet and fetching his own snack, John takes to sleeping in his old bedroom upstairs. Or at least, he attempts to sleep. There are too many thoughts of Mary and the baby running through his head. 

It is a slow slide. One finger of neat whisky in the lounge by the fire becomes two, then three, then a top up that he takes upstairs, and finally, he's taking the bottle up with him. 

November is going out like a lion when Sherlock finally speaks up one evening, in his chair, bundled in a blanket against the chill. John will be getting up any minute now for the Scotch. "Have you talked to Ella about your drinking?" Sherlock asks in as neutral a tone as he can.  
"What are you going on about?"  
"I'm getting concerned," Sherlock says frankly.  
"Oh, you're a fine one to talk," John snaps. 

Sherlock isn't surprised. John reacted exactly as expected, as though they were reading a script.  
"All I'm saying is that there are likely better options to help you sleep than pickling your liver every night."  
"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up." John bounds to his feet, clenched fists at his side shaking. He storms into the kitchen for the whisky bottle, doesn't bother with a glass, and marches upstairs. 

Sherlock lets out a sigh. It went badly, but that was no surprise. At least, the subject has been broached. He remains by the fire for another hour, enjoying the warmth, before his bladder tells him it's time to get up. He pulls the blanket off his shoulders and dislodges it from where it has wrapped around his legs. He eases his legs down, stretching them as normal blood flow resumes, and carefully pushes himself up, taking his weight with his arms, his still weak pectorals protesting. 

On his feet, he has time to take only a single step before he gets caught in the blanket. There is no time to react, he is falling. At least, it's carpet he thinks just before his chin strikes a glancing blow against the floor, burning as the fragile skin skids across the fabric. Pain shoots up the entire length of his body as his barely healed wounds and wasted muscles pull. His right arm is pinned under him and Sherlock finds that he doesn't have enough strength in the left to push himself up. He lies there dazed for a moment before his bladder releases. 

Well, _fuck_. 

"John?" he croaks, his diaphragm too compressed to allow more than a whisper. "John?" he tries again, but the sound does not carry. There is nothing within arm's reach to throw to make noise. 

He takes as deep a breath as he can and tries again to push him self up enough to get his right arm loose, but to no avail. Trying to roll onto his side makes pain lance through him and his vision narrows to pinpricks as he nearly passes out. He tries one more time to call for John, then gives up. 

He eventually manages to fall asleep. 

Sherlock wakes up at some point during the night and it takes a moment to remember where he is. He tries calling out again, but his voice is even weaker. He attempts to roll over, but the pain is still too much and the effort makes his eyes water. Even if he manages it, he might make any damage worse. It takes some time, but he is eventually able to work his right arm free enough to improve circulation. After precisely 9,541 seconds and wetting himself a second time, he falls into a light and shivery doze. 

He wakes again to weak sunlight and John calling his name. "God, Sherlock, what happened?" 

John looks remarkably clear eyed for someone who had gone upstairs with half a bottle of whisky. So Sherlock's words had sunk in after all. 

"Don't be an idiot, it's quite obvious," Sherlock whispers. "No! Don't touch me!" he hisses as John kneels beside him. "I need an ambulance."  
"Sherlock, for God's sake, let me have a look at you."  
"I said, don't touch me!"  
"All right, all right. Is anything broken?"  
"I don't know. Everything fucking hurts." 

The expletive spurs John into action. He dials 999 from the land-line and gives them what information he can. The paramedics arrive in under ten minutes, a husky woman and a man who makes John look like a giant. 

The woman takes the lead, getting Sherlock's information while her partner speaks with John. "Do we need the police?" she asks as she takes Sherlock's vitals.  
"No, no. It's nothing like that. And I... I wet myself," he adds, his words tinged with shame.  
"It's fine. These things happen all the time," she soothes. "All right. Blood pressure, pulse, and capillary reflex are good, so I doubt there's any internal bleeding. We're going to roll you now, okay?"  
"Fine." Sherlock takes a deep breath as the two move him onto his back, his body parts moving as a single entity. He hisses as blood starting flowing freely to his right arm again.  
"Where does it hurt?" the paramedic asks.  
"Right now, the arm is the worst. Pins and needles. But all down the length of me, too."  
With Sherlock's permission, she lifts his jumper and palpates gently. "It doesn't seem like anything's broken, but there's been obvious stress on your wounds. I recommend taking you in for a few scans."  
"Okay."  
"How about a wash and change of trousers before we go?" A grateful sigh is all the answer she needs. "Sir," she calls to John, who springs into action, "I need a wet flannel and a fresh pair of pajama bottoms."  
"Right!" John exclaims, already halfway down the hall. 

While John is gone, Sherlock is moved to the trolley and he reclines with a relieved sigh against the soft mattress. 

"Can your partner do it, please?" Sherlock asks when John returns.  
"Yes, of course. Carl, can you take over?" 

The male medic covers Sherlock with a blanket before swiftly removing his soaked pajamas. A few perfunctory passes with the flannel and he is tugging the fresh trousers up. Sherlock tries to lift his hips, but the medic holds them down. "Let me do the work, sir." When he is done, "Okay. Ready to go." They roll him to the door.  
"I'll be right behind you, Sherlock," John says. 

Several hours later, after Sherlock has undergone his scans and been admitted, John raps lightly on the door frame to the private room. Sherlock turns his head to him. He looks tired, but alert, the abrasion on his chin bright red through his stubble. "I just brought you a few things," John says, lifting Sherlock's holdall for him to see.  
"Thanks. Can you get me something from the canteen?"  
"Of course. Sandwich and soup?"  
"Either that or a pasta dish."  
"Sure." John steps in to put the bag on Sherlock's bedside table. "I'll be right back." 

Sherlock grunts as he raises the head of the bed when John returns fifteen minutes later. John puts the tray down on the bed table and moves it into place. "Sit," Sherlock says as he awkwardly removes the cover from creamy chicken primavera with his left hand. He takes a bite, then motions for John to butter the roll for him. He works his way through the meal while John sits silently. Done, Sherlock pops the lid off a polystyrene cup and furrows his brow in surprise.  
"Would you rather have had tea?" John asks, jumping up.  
"No. Coffee's great." Sherlock takes a sip and lets out a contented sigh. He removes the clingfilm from a brownie and eats it in four quick bites, chasing it with the coffee. 

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock," John says once Sherlock has pushed the tray away.  
"I'm not angry with you, John."  
"You're not?"  
Sherlock's confusion is apparent. "Why would I be?"  
John leans back in his chair, shaking his head. "You spent the night, hurt, on the floor of the lounge. I shouldn't have gone upstairs until you were in bed."  
"I could have gotten up to use the toilet in the middle of the night and fallen. It was a dumb accident that happened on the worst night it could have. Except one thing worked out. You didn't hear me because you were upstairs and I was quiet, not because you were drunk."  
A flicker of shame crosses John's features. "Yeah. I poured the rest whisky down the drain, by the way. Christ, I don't want to turn out like Harry." He lets out a breath. "So how are you getting on?"  
"Waiting for results of the scans, but it looks like I just pulled most of the muscles down my right side. Muscle relaxers for a few days and I'll be fine. They're keeping me overnight as a precaution. Guess I can be bored here just as well as at home."  
John smiles at that. "I should let you get some rest. Do you want me to come back later?"  
Sherlock shakes his head. "I'll be fine." 

John comes back at nine the next morning. Sherlock is sitting up in bed finishing his breakfast. "Any word yet on when they're letting you out?"  
"Doctor said he'll be here in about an hour to sign my discharge papers."  
"Need help getting dressed?"  
"No, I like wandering around London in hospital gowns just fine." 

John smirks and reaches into Sherlock's holdall, pulling out jogging bottoms, a tee-shirt, a jumper with a zip down the front, and socks. Sherlock isn't able to get his arms over his head, but John manages to get the tee-shirt and jumper on with minimal grunts from Sherlock. The trousers and socks are easier. Done, Sherlock reclines on the bed and lets out a sigh.  
"Sore?" John asks.  
"Probably, but the muscle relaxants are marvelous."  
John frowns. "You took some this morning?"  
"Half a dose, to get me home."  
"Okay, fine. Did you get any sleep?"  
"I didn't even wake for the vitals checks."  
"So no midnight snack explains the double breakfast this morning. Glad to know you're sweet talking the nurses instead of giving them grief."  
Sherlock has the decency to blush. "It was just an extra boiled egg."  
"And, based on the crumbs, an extra piece of toast and an extra sweet roll."  
"Fine, and an extra two sausages, too. With ketchup. Satisfied?"  
John laughs. "So what did you do last night?"  
"Beat Mary at Scrabble. Six times." 

A long beat passes before John nods. "Right. And I take it you weren't playing Scrabble through your phones."  
"No. She came to spend a few hours."  
"You would have had to call her."  
"I did. I miss her."  
"You miss the person who shot you." John takes a few steps back and falls into the visitor chair and takes his head in his hands.  
"I miss my friend."  
John looks up, his sapphire eyes burning. "You're completely mad, Sherlock." 

There is long beat before Sherlock answers, "And you were a soldier."  
"What does that --" John lowers his voice as Sherlock shushes him. "-- have to do with anything?"  
"It has everything to do with it. Would you say that going into the army meant learning a certain way of thinking?"  
John understands where Sherlock is going with his train of thought. "Oh, no. Don't go there."  


"I see it with Mycroft, too. It's the same thing in the intelligence field. You are trained to think and react in certain ways. I've always been my own man and wanted to know that my actions and values were my own, hence why I've always resisted Mycroft's job offers. What Mary did that night, I've seen you and Mycroft do countless times, act on an instinct born of the indoctrination inherent in certain careers that require that life or death decisions be made instantly and without hesitation. Mary has learned that you can't just shrug off that sort of training without examining your every thought to ensure that it is your own. She won't make that mistake again and so I have no reason to fear her."  
John shakes his head. "She lied to me."  
"She could have killed me and kept her secret. Instead, she risked you finding out the truth to protect her lie. Her logic was flawed, I won't argue that, but ultimately, she chose to protect Mary Watson. She could have killed Magnussen and me both and disappeared, taken up another life as she has done many times. But she chose to stay. She chose you and the life you're building together." 

John drops his head in his hands again and lets out a sigh.  
"My mother wants to do Christmas this year," Sherlock says. "It'll be dreadful. I want you and Mary to come. She said she will."  
"How did she look?" John asks without looking up.  
"Strained, but well. I -- no. Never mind."  
John looks up, eyes narrowed with curiosity. "You what?"  
Sherlock sighs. "I put a hand on her belly and felt your child move."  
"Oh." For the first time since the whole mess started, John finally looks properly sad, with only exhaustion mixed in and no hint of anger.  
"Come for Christmas, John."  
"Yeah. Okay. Well, I'll go see what's keeping your doctor." 

John gets up and starts for the door.  
"If it's going to be much longer, I'm going to need biscuits," Sherlock says.  
John stops in his tracks, turns around, sees that Sherlock is serious, and bursts out laughing. "No biscuits. Mrs. H. said she'll have scones for us when we get in."  
"Even better."

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's physical state at the time of his fall and inability to pick himself up in this story is based on empirical data drawn from a similar incident that followed a comparable (at least as relates to musculature) major injury and recovery period. As does his appetite. Because there's nothing like a body trying to knit itself back together after major trauma to rev up the appetite!
> 
> I really want to believe John's words to Mary at the Holmes residence and I wondered what could have pushed him to work past his issues. I ship him and Mary so hard and I hope that things are good between them in series four...


End file.
